


Weaving frost lines

by TripleLutz



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: -Ish, All will be well, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety Disorder, Background Relationships, Established Adam/Shiro (Voltron), Ice Skating, Multi, Physical Disability, Slow Burn, supportive friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 08:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16059767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TripleLutz/pseuds/TripleLutz
Summary: Eventually, Lance decides that enough is enough. He wants to skate. He will. It looks cool, he's a cool guy, he can do this.Lance is an ambitious university student who wants to learn how to skate.Keith is a professional skater who needs help with his studies.They find each other (again).





	Weaving frost lines

**Author's Note:**

> I uploaded this here earlier this month but soon found myself uncertain that I could finish it or update it often enough due to a busy schedule... but things worked out in the end, so I'm happily bringing it back! ღ 
> 
> It's nothing fancy, just something cute-ish I'll be writing during my train rides to/from university and while waiting for practice at the ice hall - but I'll still do my best! It's a lot about the characters and not that much about ice skating or academia, with physical and mental issues being discussed as we go. It won't be overly heavy though, I swear, and to balance it I'll try to include tooth-rotting fluff whenever I can! ✿ We all need it, uh?  
> This story also contains a side of established Adashi, I hope I'll be able to either focus a chapter on them and/or include a one-shot detailing how their relationship came to be in this one universe. Please note that English is not my first language and I don't have a beta reader who could help with this, so my apologies in advance for any typo or grammatical error! ;-; 
> 
> While there's a plot and a plan, I'm open to suggestions/ideas in the comments for small extra scenes you might wish to see! Please don't hesitate to tell me~ I'd be super-grateful for every kudos and comment, thank you in advance for leaving either or both, it would really make me happy to hear from you ;-; ღ Enjoy! ✿

  

Lance needed this job. Well, maybe not _this_ job, but at least a job like this. It fits around his studies and pays enough to allow him to avoid starvation. The ice hall is small, a simple rink, not a lot of visitors. Money is made for the most part from hockey teams and figure skating groups who book the place to train outside public hours, as well as through commissions taken from private skating teachers during the day. There’s a much bigger ice hall elsewhere in town, so this one is usually the second or third choice for professionals. Lance is here three times a week, for four to six hours, which leaves him enough time to study on the side.

He is really grateful that Hunk, his roommate who’s been regularly visiting the premises for years and befriended some of the staff over time, put in a good word for him to be hired. Money started to get _tight_ after Lance was let off his previous part-time job, making his grades fall because of the stress and thus threatening his academic scholarship. It was a vicious cycle. Hunk became his one true saviour, that day. Lance is yet to take him out to lunch as a proper ‘ _thanks_ ’.

He started working at the ice hall with no real knowledge of the ice itself or any sport played on it. This situation worried him at first, however his duties were and are fortunately still limited to welcoming customers, clean the premises, and occasionally manage after-public hours bookings. This, he can handle for sure, however that’s not quite enough for his tastes.

Copies of the IFS magazine and other sports publications are always available around the front desk and the shoe changing area, so Lance reads these when he has nothing else to do and none of his colleagues is here. It’s not often enough to gather some solid acquaintance with the ice sports world, but still, he learns things such as the names and difficulty of various equipment gears and of figure skating jumps, the profiles of national hockey teams and local coaches, the stakes of various championships across several disciplines. He slowly starts to understand more and more of the technical talk spoken around him and is able to recognise some of the athletes’ names as soon as he hears it, although he almost always mixes up which exact sport said athletes play. All in all, he _learns_ , and it’s something he cherishes.

It’s not a family of sports he grew up with, in the family household nor in his personal interests. He can remember the few times he visited an ice rink with his family and even once with friends, but that’s all. He still can barely stand on blades and move at a decent speed without falling as of now, two months after his first day working here. He tries to skate seriously about once a week during his break and it often ends up a disappointment, although he’s quick to conceal it with jokes to the rest of the team. Sometimes Hunk is here too, and Hunk is good at skating, making Lance simultaneously proud of his friend and frustrated at his own shortcomings.

Really, all he wants is to be able to take dates here and impress them a little — or at least not humiliate himself — or perhaps challenge Hunk to an agility race for the times they get bored of video games.

From the reception, through the back window, he sees people jump high and twirl fast, defying gravity and searching for a balance of grace and athletic skills, landing quietly on their blades. The technique in itself is fascinating for the physical science major that Lance is, and it discourages him a little more that he is unable to jump like this too. He _knows_ how these people do it; he just can’t adapt it to himself.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, Lance decides that enough is enough. He _wants_ to skate. He will. It looks cool, he’s a cool guy, he can do this.

He figures he can afford to go home thirty minutes later each day he’s working here without disturbing his grades or study plans, and with this in mind, he asks his manager if it would be okay for him to use the rink alone for a short time after his shifts end, on the days they close at 2pm. After all, maybe he’ll get better results without other people there? Iverson finds this theory silly, but he doesn’t mind Lance testing it out. He grants him permission to use the rink once his duties are over and until the professionals show up. He also makes Lance swear he won’t rush cleaning the place to gain more time out there and that he’ll carefully clean the blades he uses afterward as well.

Lance agrees, of course. Hunk, upon learning of this, tells him that he’s very curious to see how things will turn out.

 

* * *

 

It turns out _badly_ , or at least right now, it looks bad. Lance maybe kind of hates his life.

Two months after this solo training bargain started, he’s finally learned how to skate faster, pivot swiftly, and skate backward for a short distance. It’s pretty nice alright, but it apparently emboldened him too much, judging that he just tried to add even more speed and a little jump to his pivotal movement for the first time… and twisted his left ankle on landing. He didn’t hear it crack, but he can feel it burn and get too cold at the same time. _Great_.

Should he move? He’s not sure. He’s in pain, yes, but it’s not excruciating. Perhaps sitting here and getting anxious on his own is making him blow things out of proportions too, but realistically, there’s always a chance that it could be a bit worse than a simple twist. Because of this, a part of him is leaning toward waiting for the upcoming skating group, as these people might have more insight on that kind of things and could help him calm down or giving him a pass to panic.

Only, Lance already feels humiliated at the thought. He doesn’t want to be a person in distress who doesn’t know how to act. He feels silly for having let his phone on one of the seats in fear of dropping it on the ice or falling and breaking it. He could call Hunk, the night security folks, or even Iverson, people he somewhat trusts not to be too amused when they’ll see him on his arse, panicking about this damn ankle. He briefly considers crawling toward the closest exit from the rink to then hop to his stuff, before he realises that it could be even more humiliating to be found like this in case he can make it out the rink easily enough.

All in all, Lance is trapped. It sucks. (It _hurts_.)

After minutes of indecision, he hears voices emerging from the hallway between the locker rooms and the rink. He’s never met this particular group before; it’s only the third time they’ve booked the place. He however saw a profile and interview of the coach, Coran Smythe, in one of the magazines he read. Dude seems like big enough a deal to not need to come to such a small ice hall, but Lance doesn’t know much about these things. It’s not his priority anyway.

The two people who approach the rink are _not_ Coran Smythe. The taller one, Lance vaguely recognises him from an article he didn’t have the time to read a while ago. It’s the shorter man who notices him first, though, and calls:

“Eh, you okay there?”

Lance can feel a sudden blush of embarrassment spreading all over his face. What a _bad_ day… “Y-yeah, it’s just…” he stammers. “I think I twisted my ankle.”

“Oh no…” The taller man skates to him quickly, followed by the other. He kneels down before Lance and tells him: “We’ll help you exit the rink, but let’s take the skate off first, as it might be too heavy for your foot to carry now. Is that okay?”

Lance nods. He lets the kind stranger help him with untying and taking off his left skate, as it is too far from his reach since he doesn’t dare bending his leg just yet. The third man looks half-worried, half-annoyed. For some reason, Lance thinks he is familiar — like real life familiar, not from TV or magazines. His body is lean but muscular, clearly trained for ice sports. His face is… and this silly mullet…

He _is_ familiar.

“I’m Shiro and that’s Keith, by the way,” the taller man says after he has taken Lance’s skate away. He speaks with a faint accent, one Lance can’t exactly place for sure but, given the man’s name, assumes is Japanese. “Your name?”

“Lance.”

Shiro smiles at him. “Nice to meet you.” He carefully peels down the sock covering Lance’s foot and inspects the slightly swollen ankle from both sides, making sure he’s not touching it too much. “It’s a bit swollen,” he notes. “Nothing severe from what I see, but it’s best you don’t walk much on it for a few days. Let’s text Coran and ask him to bring a cold press to limit the swelling, but don’t worry, it’ll be alright.”

Lance sighs in relief. “Thank you.”

Shiro acquiesces. “No problem.” He appears and sounds very calm, something Lance really needs right now. “I think you should tie your skate slightly tighter next time, to avoid a repeat. Please still visit a nurse’s or a doctor’s practice as soon as you can — we have basic training recognising injuries, but we aren’t the best medics. Do you feel the pain inward or outward?”

“Outward.”

“Good,” Shiro grins. “It’s the better one.”

Lance sighs again, from gratitude this time. His blood pressure is slowly coming back to normal levels.

Keith sighs too, getting their attention. “How did that happen anyway?” he asks. He keeps his arms crossed, his brows furrowed, looking suspicious. “And what were you doing alone _here_ , outside public hours?”

“Such _inquisition_ ,” Lance retorts. “I train here a little after my shifts — I work here, I got the permission to do so. I tried to jump while pivoting but messed up the landing.”

Keith raises an eyebrow. “How long have you been skating?”

Lance is getting a little annoyed, nothing serious, however he isn’t in a position of patience. “A few months,” he mumbles.

“Why would you attempt a jump without someone to supervise you if you don’t know _how_ to jump?”

 _That_ ’s when it clicks. The _tone_.

Lance’s epiphany brings him only more anger. “I remember you!” he yelps.

Keith looks confused. “What?”

“In sixth grade! Montgomery Middle! You replaced me on the STEM team!”

It’s old news now, many years old, but maybe a part of Lance was never able to let the incident go. Calling it an ‘incident’ might not be very accurate, all things considered; the whole story fits along the lines of a student — Keith — who, shortly after he transferred to Montgomery Middle in October, had to pick a club and chose to go with STEM. As it turned out, Keith managed to fare better than Lance on the National Science Bowl prep tests, and thus replaced him as alternate on the school’s team.

Lance had skipped a grade a few years prior, something Keith didn’t do, so although the boys were born the same year, they didn’t share classes together outside bi-weekly general STEM club meetings. Somehow, this hurt more. Mullet boy was quickly fired from the Science Bowl team for behavioural problems, however the damage to Lance’s confidence remained felt and visible for the remainder of the year. No matter his efforts, the boy never managed to reach the alternate place again before the tournament started. He can barely remember what he did for most of that year, really, if not feeling like he was constantly drowning.

Eventually, Keith completed the sixth grade and ended up moving away. Lance spent the summer break studying from morning to night, every single day, with the image of the other boy in mind and the humiliation and anger still sticking their claws deep into his skin. He made the competitive team again the following year, regular rather than alternate to boot, and vowed to forget all about seventh grade. Mullet boy became a silhouette, and the shame nothing but a stingy memory. 

Until today anyway.

Keith thinks about Lance’s words for a moment, before he deadpans: “I don’t remember you.”

“Seriously?!”

“Okay,” Shiro cuts in, “that is _enough_.” He gets up and extends a hand toward Lance. “Let’s get you away from the ice and call someone to pick you up, alright?”

Lance blushes again, a bit ashamed. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Shiro puts on a smile again. Keith, although still looking grumpy, also offers to help. It is good that they’re both strong, for trying to stand up again on ice on only one valid foot proves quite the challenge. Lance is grateful they’ve found him.

They manage to lead him outside the rink and then help him sit down on the nearest plastic bench, with Shiro bringing a chair in front of him where he instructs Lance to rest his injured foot. The young man complies. He thanks them a few times before he points to a coat resting on a bench almost half a rink away. He is feeling more and more like a bother. “Sorry, my stuff is over there…”

“I’ll get it,” Keith mumbles.

He puts guards on his blades before he swiftly walks away (on _skates_ , which Lance can’t help but respect), while Shiro, cell phone in hand, messages someone — coach Smythe, Lance assumes. A moment later, two women emerge from the hallway leading to one of the locker spaces. They greet Shiro and Keith and wave at Lance before they start to skate a few laps side-by-side. They are soon joined by two other men, who also greet everyone and acknowledge Lance before they get on the ice. No one seems too surprised to see Lance here, probably due to the position he is in. It’s possible that Shiro sent a group text rather than a private one, too.

When coach Smythe walks in at last with a small package in his hands, he’s followed by a third young woman who drops files on a bench a quarter of the rink away from Shiro and Lance, whom she greets with a smile before she also joins the others on the ice. Meanwhile, the coach almost _sprints_ toward the duo.

“Here you are!” he exclaims. “I got a compress and some ice for you, young man. Pity you hurt yourself! I hope you’ll feel better soon.”

Lance blushes faintly. “Thanks?” he whispers.

“Thanks, Coran,” Shiro smiles. “Keith is bringing Lance’s phone here, so his roommate can be contacted. It could be hazardous to send him on his way alone.”

“Indeed!”

Keith is quick to come back and hand the coat to Lance, who is busy apologising several more times to Shiro for having to play medic again. The two ex-schoolmates don’t exchange words nor glances for now. If he is honest, Lance is still in shock — and it’s not due to the injury.

He texts Hunk to come pick him up if possible, giving him a basic rundown of the situation, and waits while he eavesdrops on coach Smythe telling Keith about a potential music switch the young skater seems reluctant to accept. This goes on for a couple minutes, until Lance receives a reply. Shiro, who’s kept quiet so far and has finished securing the compress and ice pack over Lance’s ankle, notices the buzzing. He asks about the situation, making the two other men stop their argument to listen to Lance instead.

“My roommate is on his way,” he informs them. “It should take him about half an hour to get here.”

Coran nods and replies: “Well, we’ll start practice now, but you’re welcome to stay until then! It’s no trouble at all.”

“Really?”

That sounds like a privilege. Both Shiro and the coach nod, looking amused by Lance’s surprise. Keith shrugs, takes of his blade guards, and escapes on the ice.

Lance settles in as Shiro leaves to go talk to one of the women, while coach Smythe retrieves his files and discuss a page with one of the men. Everyone is in movement. They’re not using music, so most of what can be heard are the sounds of the blades and brief conversations exchanged here and there. Even Keith participates, which surprises Lance a little. He doesn’t remember the man being a sociable person — quite the contrary, in fact.

Not that he’d have ever thought skating would be in Keith’s future at all, either.

A few minutes later and after exchanging quick words with coach Smythe, Shiro skates to Lance, exits the ice, and comes to sit down on the bench on the student’s left.

“Doing okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

Keith, on the ice, starts skating at a faster pace. It pains Lance to admit that the man looks very skilled there, his movements fluid and precise. Coach Smythe is focusing his attention on a stack of papers and talking excitedly to three skaters, his voice mixing with the sounds of the blades. When Keith reaches the opposite side of the rink from where Shiro and Lance are sitting, he jumps and rotates a few times, after which he lands perfectly in balance and starts to skate backward, performing some more technical steps as he goes. The precision of the movements makes Lance’s heart beat loud and fast.

“Was that an axel?” he wonders out loud.

Shiro shakes his head. “Triple lutz.”

“Oh.”

Lance feels a bit awkward. He spent some time trying to memorise the jumps and how to differentiate them, but seeing it live is very different than watching YouTube videos.

Still, he doesn’t know what else he could talk about with Shiro, and silence makes him uncomfortable. He figures he can make a few mistakes if needed, if only to pass time and not feel somewhat misplaced. As such, the next time Keith jumps (and lands safe), Lance asks: “Is that a Salchow?”

“Toe loop,” Shiro corrects him, now turning his head toward Lance, a little smirk on his lips. “Are you sure you work here? _How_?”

Although teasing, the tone is decidedly gentle. Lance makes a vague gesture with his right hand, grins back, and answers: “I have a _lot_ of charm.”

“Of course.”

Lance briefly reports his attention to one of the women on the rink as she twirls in perfect balance at a gradual speed that might only be vertiginous, while another man skating toward them jumps and lands safely before he starts to skate toward coach Smythe. Lance sighs at the sight. “I wish I could twirl or jump like this,” he confesses.

“Why don’t you take classes?” Shiro asks him. “It’s not too late. They have beginner levels for adults, working up to jumps.”

“Yeah, I know — I manage the schedules and payments here… which is how I know I can’t really afford it, and even if I could, having to come here at the hours when these classes are usually held would be a strain on my studies. I’m a college junior already, so I must stay focused. NASA won’t accept low grades.”

Shiro, to Lance’s relief, ignores most of the student’s rambling and instead focuses on the safer detail. “NASA?” he probes.

“Yeah, I hope. Someday.” Lance can hear the excitement in his own voice. He _really_ wants to go. He’s been dreaming of this for so long. He’s worked so hard. He’s so impatient. “ _Space_ , man.” He lifts his right index finger upward, near his face, an imitation of the iconic shot of Max in the series Roswell. It’s a reference he’s always worried people might not get, but Shiro chuckles briefly and in a genuine way at the sight. Looks like a win this time.

The two men stay quiet for a while after this, observing the different skaters on the rink. They all shine as exceptionally talented in Lance’s eyes, who is in awe at their skills and now very unsure that he’d ever find the confidence to try and skate again. To top his annoyance, he finds himself watching Keith the most — unintentionally, like a vortex always dragging his attention to the man. He can’t exactly tell what it is like for him to be reunited with mullet boy after all these years, in this one place no less.

Lance doesn’t have much time to ponder the question, though, as Shiro soon starts up the conversation again. “So you stay here to train after your shifts? Alone?”

“Usually, yeah. I’m here three times a week, so that’s about one hour of training a week… well, I mean, I try to do laps forward and backward without falling and sometimes experiment with easy jumps. I guess that counts as training at my level.”

“Mh-mmh…” Shiro takes a moment to think, then whispers: “It’d be easier with a coach.”

Lance isn’t sure how to interpret this, so he just nods and sighs: “Yeah.”

There’s some more silence, during which Lance wonders whether he’s being rude by not initiating a topic of discussion. Or would it be bothersome instead? There is also the whole ‘ _he looks familiar_ ’ thing to process again — _who_ is Shiro? He was in one of the magazines Lance read, that’s for sure, but he’s not on the ice with the others. Is it just because Lance is here? Does he normally train with the others? Thing is, he’s _quite_ thick and very tall, not the kind of bodies usually seen in figure skating as far as Lance’s knowledge goes. Perhaps he is a hockey player? Or even another coach?

Lance feels frustrated that he can’t remember what that article he skipped was about. He prefers not to guess, but rather to ask: “I saw you somewhere, didn’t I? A magazine, or…”

Shiro nods, not taking his eyes off the ice. His tone is still soft, though. “Maybe you have.”

 _Okay, not much information here_ … perhaps guessing something flattering wouldn’t be too bad? Lance will have to try and see. “Are you a national medallist?”

“Oh, _no_ ,” Shiro replies and smiles, looking at Lance this time. “I’m a choreographer. I used to be a dancer, I moved from Japan to Canada six years ago to work there, but I had to quit eventually. I’ve now spent the last three years creating routines for Coran’s skaters, and I also supervise their complementary ballet training.”

“Ah, I see…”

How old is this guy? If Lance has to guess, he’d put him under thirty. Are dancers’ careers _that_ short? It’s possible, of course, but probably not the best question to ask right now. Cautious, Lance decides to comment instead: “Sounds like a busy schedule.”

“Indeed.”

Coach Smythe calls Keith across the rink, asking him to come closer. They exchange a few words, after what Keith makes a complete lap and attempts a jumping combination at the end of which he almost falls. Lance, to his annoyance, is more scared than amused — falling on the ice _hurts_ , that much he can tell. As the coach gives some more advice to Keith before the skater attempts the jumps again, Shiro leans in a tad closer to Lance.

“Keith here is the current national bronze medallist,” he says. “He missed silver by less than two points and has been in even more of a mood ever since.”

“I pity you,” Lance mumbles.

Shiro lets out a muffled laugh. “It’s not _that_ bad,” he asserts. “He _can_ focus and play nice, which is how he got so good at what he does. He’s training for the Grand Prix for now, so he has very little time to complain. He barely missed the finals last year, ranking seventh overall, but he took bronze at the Four Continents and then ninth place at Worlds earlier this year, putting him in better spirits for the upcoming season.”

“So he’s a big shot, uh?”

“He really is.” (Shiro sounds tender and proud, Lance notices. Brotherly and kind.) “He is an Olympian too, took second place in the men’s free skate during the team event and won a silver medal overall with the national skating team.”

“No way.” Lance almost never watches the winter Olympics, something he kind of regrets now. He wonders what his reaction would have been, seeing this live — seeing _Keith_ there. Would he have recognised him on the screen too? He has enough remaining questions to ask Shiro so not to ponder that one for long. “If I may ask: why are you training here? It’s a nice place I guess, but not the best ice hall in town.”

“We normally train elsewhere, with five other skaters and another coach too. Three skaters are competing abroad right now, and the coach is traveling with, while the other two are recovering from injuries. A junior synchronised skating team was formed a while ago at our usual rink, so we lost a few of our hours there, hence leading to us deciding to come here two or three times a month to make up for it. A change of scenery isn’t too bad, as long as the ice is well maintained and that the rink is big enough.” He pauses for a few seconds, then adds: “Also, you’re cheaper.”

“There it is.”

Lance’s phone buzzes again. It’s Hunk.

“Your friend?” Shiro asks.

“Yes,” Lance answers. “He’s in the parking lot.”

Shiro seems relieved. “Good. I’ll help you put on your shoes and then get to the car, okay?”

Lance can’t believe how accommodating this guy has been with him. He makes a mental note to give him chocolate or something like this, the next time the group books the place, as a well-deserved and tangible ‘ _thank you_ ’.

Lance accepts his help to get up, causing some pain in his ankle. The injury looks… he doesn’t know. He’d rather not focus on this. He puts on a brave face, shifts his entire weight on his right foot, and gets ready to leave.

But Shiro appears _stuck_. He is judging him from top to bottom, a couple of times, lost in thoughts. “Sorry,” he finally trails off, his smile apologetic. “Hold on…”

He turns around and calls coach Smythe’s and Keith’s names, motioning for them to come closer. They quickly cross the space between them. Keith, unsurprisingly, avoids Lance’s eyes.

“What is it?” the coach asks.

“Say, Coran,” Shiro muses, “you wanted Keith to teach, didn’t you?”

This is obviously news to the young skater, who yelps: “ _What?!_ ”

Coach Smythe remains unfazed. “Why, yes,” he replies, “I think it would be good for him to mentor beginners from time to time.”

Shiro puts on a sly smile, all conspiracy and charm. “Very well, then why not Lance here?” Before anyone has the time to react, he turns to Lance and clarifies: “Keith could teach you how to skate after your shift, about once a week. It wouldn’t have to be long sessions, since even just thirty minutes, with proper guidance, can give good results over time. You wouldn’t have to pay anything, it could be an _exchange_. Keith tends to neglect his studies due to the demanding training and the stress that comes with international competitions. You’re an ambitious university student, so maybe you could help him focus on his last courses and SAT prep from time to time? It’d only be about sticking him in a library and standing guard, no tutoring needed. The point is, you could help each other. No commitment needed.”

Lance enters panic mode. He is flattered and grateful but also doubtful this is a good idea, for _many_ reasons. Keith however beats him and answers first: “No way.”

This and the skater’s dull expression make Lance _furious_ rather than relieved. “And why not?” he spits.

“That’s a good idea, Shiro!” the coach interjects. “Lance, would you want to join us for a bit sometimes to learn the basics? Shiro and I could help too!”

Shiro reminds him that they have other duties to take care of, sending the two older men to bicker for a while. Overall, Lance is torn about this. It’s a good opportunity for him to learn how to skate properly while saving money on lessons. The guidance would probably help him avoid frustration with his lack of progress as things are now as well, an important advantage. Not to mention, he is not in the business to reject people’s requests for help when he has the means to give them a hand. He can’t find an answer on his own yet, so he turns to Keith in hope to decipher what the skater is thinking.

It looks a lot like anger. “Are any of you going to ask _me_ what I want?” Keith growls.

“ _No_ ,” coach Smythe retorts, suddenly turning toward him. “I declare this a part of your training, Keith, and that is _final_.”

Keith reddens. “Wha― you _can’t_ do that!” he exclaims. “I’m not your property!”

Shiro concurs: “You can’t do that, Coran.”

The coach rolls his eyes. “Fine, fine! But transmitting knowledge is a valuable component of our ways, Keith. It helps us _grow_. And for such a short time every week, it wouldn’t disturb your own training at all! If anything, it might teach you some much-needed _temperance_.” (Hearing this, Keith _pouts_. Lance has a hard time concealing a snicker.) “Besides, didn’t you tell us you wanted to get in a good university, starting next fall? With all the competitions coming your way, you’ll need to work on these things as efficiently as possible. Lance here went through this whole deal before, so perhaps he could help you now. It’s about solidarity.”

Keith chooses to stay quiet. He doesn’t look as annoyed as before, although it is clear that he is not convinced that this could work. Lance has to agree with him on this one. It might be unappreciative of him to say ‘ _no_ ’, especially since a part of him _really_ wants this, but it does sound like a disaster waiting for the worst moment to blow. It’s a lot of _questions_ , too. Could Lance find ways to get past his animosity toward Keith — or rather, toward the teen the skater once was? Would Keith even take him seriously? Could they ever find some common ground? And what if Keith ends up the worst study buddy ever? He used to be very good at school, Lance remembers, which tells him that the weight of international competitions must be very heavy if he’s been sent two years back; would this year be any different for him? How hectic is his schedule, when Lance’s is already so busy?

Why is it so _tempting_?

“I guess,” Keith mumbles — not what Lance expected.

Shiro puts a hand on the student’s shoulder, and asks: “What do you think?”

Lance ponders the question for a while longer, although he knows that his mind is made up by now. He blames his natural boldness, curiosity, and constant search for new adventures. He blames Keith’s rejection back then and tentative willingness today. He blames Shiro’s kindness. He blames coach Smythe — though for him, he can’t say why. Something inside of him just tells him it’s the right call. Is it reason? Is it spite? Whatever it is, it feels thrilling enough.

“I think it could be _great_.”

 

 


End file.
